CHAPTER TWO

 

At some point Brenna and Will parted, running at divergent angles to form a wide V and thus cover more ground between them. The tearing, thrashing sound of hoof beats grew louder, more distinct, as did the angry grunts and enraged screams of a half-mad boar. Closer still and they could smell the telltale sourness of rot and offal that clung to the filthy beast, and they could hear it panting and snorting in a frenzy of bloodlust.

The trees and shadows were a hindrance now, not a haven, and as Brenna ran along the tracts of decaying leaves, she called out Robin’s name. Will was making as much noise, if not more, partly to draw Robin’s attention, partly to draw that of the boar. Both Will and Brenna had their bows unslung and arrow nocked, for boars were not known for their slow wits. They were cunning and devious and could charge from the underbrush to impale a man on their tusks before the threat was even identified.

“Robin! Damn you, answer!”

“Here!” came a hollow-sounding reply. “I am here!”

Brenna veered toward the source of the shout and saw Will do the same, converging from opposite sides on a deep, narrow gully. Robin stood at one end, at the other a red-eyed, slavering brute easily eight hundred pounds in weight. Robin had his dagger clutched in his fist, the blade glinting wet and red its full length. He was covered in dirt and leaves, and there was blood running from a gash over his temple, mingling with the sweat to plaster the chestnut waves of his hair to his face and throat. His lips were curled back in a snarl that perfectly mirrored the one on the boar’s face as it lowered its head and gouged its hooves into the ground in preparation for a final lunge. Each scuff of a cloven hoof caused a spray of blood to erupt from a slash in its throat, but the damage was neither painful enough nor debilitating enough to deter it from taking one last charge at his cornered quarry.

Almost as one, Will and Brenna raised their bows, took aim, and fired. Both arrows struck simultaneously, dead center on the low, furrowed brow. The impact of the steel arrowheads split the rock-hard bone of the skull and lifted the beast up and back onto its stubby hind legs. It came down hard and stood absolutely still for as long as it took a syrupy pendant of blood to run the length of its snout. It then heeled sideways, the legs buckling beneath it, the bulk of the corpse landing with a resounding thud on the gully floor.

Robin straightened slowly out of his crouch, a hand cradling his ribs. Brenna was already on her way down the steep side of the embankment, skidding her heels in the crumbling black earth to regulate the haste of her descent. Will nocked another arrow in his bow and skewered it straight through the boar’s heart to insure against any chance of a miraculous recovery.

“Are you all right?” Brenna asked.

“Damned cod-sucking swine came at me from nowhere. Tore the bow right out of my hand then picked me up and tossed me into this pit. I managed to get up a tree, but the bastard kept ramming it until he brought it and me down.”

“There were plenty more you could have climbed.”

“Did I know where the devil you two were, or how long I might be forced to keep a perch in the boughs?”

“You could have shouted,” she said. “Or whistled. We would have heard you.”

“I was perfectly in control.”

“Yes. We can see that. We can also hear Sparrow now: ‘Addle-wit! Groutnoll! Great hulking lummock! Good St. Cyril and all the martyrs deliver me from fools and nithings!’”

Robin put a hand to the cut on his temple and scowled at the smear of blood that came away on his fingers. “It is barely a scratch.”

“And that?” She pointed to a wide slash in his tunic.

He followed her finger and pulled the gap in the cloth wider to expose the well-muscled rack of ribs. The skin was broken where a tusk had grazed him, and the surrounding flesh was already starting to turn an ugly, mottled blue.

“Sparrow will, of course, praise you until your ears ring. A sennight before the last and largest tournament of the season and you break your ribs on a boar’s tusk instead of seeking the safety of a high tree limb.”

Robin glared at the twitching carcass. “The day I fear a boar will be the day I wrap my spurs in flour sacking and give them to my grandchildren to use as trowels. And the ribs are not broken,” he added, wincing as he probed at the discolored flesh. “Only bruised.”

“Bruised, broken … it makes little difference. You know full well Sparrow will not allow you to participate in the tourney if he suspects you are in less than prime fighting condition.”

Robin’s glare lost some of its ferocity. He was near the mirror image of their father, a wealth of muscled splendor carried proudly across the chest and shoulders. His hair was cut short and straight across the nape in the French fashion, too thick with waves to hold any true style, but dark enough to give his handsome face the prominence it deserved. He had been an undefeated champion in the lists these past four years, yet the very steel that made his opponents fall by the wayside like so much chaff was itself a puddle of old candle wax under the scowling despotism of the diminutive, recalcitrant seneschal of Château d’Amboise.

“Sparrow has no say one way or the other on how I choose or choose not to spend my time.”

“Brave words,” Brenna allowed. “Have you ever said them to his face?”

Her brother cursed and started brushing the clods of dirt off his sleeves and hose. He flexed his arms as he did so and stretched his torso side to side to test the extent of the tenderness in his ribs. “Prince Louis himself will be at Château Gaillard to host the events. The best knights in France, Normandy, and Gascony will be in attendance, with the winner being declared champion over all. There is even a rumor the Prince of Darkness will make an appearance.”

Brenna groaned and rolled her eyes as she recited, “The most feared knight in all the Holy Roman Empire, reputed to be half man, half beast, and wholly ungodly.”

“He has never ventured into Normandy before,” Robin said, objecting to the sarcasm in her voice. “Those who have seen him joust say he comes down the lists like a dark wind from hell, his claws as sharp as those on the falcon emblazoned on his shield.”

“And you want to fight him?”

“I intend to fight him, and to send him limping back to perdition with the name of Robert Wardieu d’Amboise emblazoned on his arse forever! I have trained for it, am ready for it, and deserve it by God, and nothing so trivial as a bruised rib or an elfin demagogue will deny me my due.”

“Be that as it may,” Will said dryly, “I would still advise you to keep your ribs out of Sparrow’s eyesight … at least until you are well along on the road to Rouen.”

Robin spared a frosty glance for his friend. “And how do you propose I do that? He has eyes in every rafter, ears in every garde robe, and puts himself under my nose with less warning than a cabbage fart.”

Brenna laughed. “Such was your fate to be the firstborn and charmed as Sparrow seems to insist. ‘Tis why he feels the ever-present need to safeguard you body and soul for whatever momentous destiny he believes awaits you. We common seedlings, on the other hand, could walk through the gates bloodied and bludgeoned and he would only sniff at our carelessness.”

“Your sympathy warms my heart.”

“It should warm your cockles, brother dearest, since we are your two best allies at the moment, for if you are not permitted to attend Gaillard, neither of us is likely to be venturing forth either. Moreover, we have had years of experience skulking in and out of the chateau without the weight of all that nobility drawing an eye toward us.” She stood back a pace and examined his ragged appearance. “A clean tunic, fresh hose, and no one should be the wiser for your failure to put Sir Tusker in his place.”

“I will know,” he said gruffly, the pride chafing in his voice.

“So will I. So will Will’um. So will the trees and the mist and the smaller beasts of the forest who still tremble and quake at your passage. But unless you spread yourself like a crucifix on the floor and confess the transgression, Sparrow need not know. In the meantime, you will be left in peace to heal and to contemplate the advantages of having some devious bones in your body.”

“I can be just as devious as any of you,” Robin protested.

“Faugh! Your cheek twitches like a hare’s nose when you tell a falsehood,” Brenna teased. “And your throat turns a most glorious shade of red. If you had a deceitful hair on your head we would be hard-pressed to find it amid all the honor and nobility.”

“I will concede I do not enjoy deceiving anyone by word or deed. Nor am I as expert as either of you at evading the truth. At the same time, I am neither as virtuous or as self-righteous as you would make me out to be.”

Both Will and Brenna arched an eyebrow, their silence an eloquent enough rebuttal.

“Fine,” he declared. “I shall defer to your superior knowledge of chicanery.”

“And my superior skills in the forest,” Brenna added.

Robin looked askance at Will, who shrugged and admitted, “She caught me fair on the last round.”

“Which makes the two of us even, by my count,” Robin said. “Two wins apiece.”

“I only see two arrows in Sir Tusker,” she retorted smartly. “Which gives Will and me an extra hit—leaving the two of you tied with a brace of strikes—and me ahead with three.”

Robin’s steely eyes narrowed. A split second later Will’s did the same as the alignment of loyalties took a noticeable shift.

“A questionable resolution at best,” he murmured. “Since it was clearly my arrow that felled the beast.”

“I think not,” she argued. “I distinctly saw mine strike first.”

Will looked at Robin, who held up his bloodied dagger. “It could well have been my stroke along the jugular, for all the blood he was spraying.”

The three crossed to where the dead boar lay steaming on the crush of leaves. The two arrows that protruded from the skull were seated so closely together they could have been fired from the same bow. The slash in his throat was deep enough to have soaked the ground red beneath him and intoxicate a feasting swarm of black ants.

“I see nothing for it but to declare a draw,” Robin said, straightening.

“A pox on your draw, brother dear. We still have a few miles of forest between here and the chateau. First one to reach the gates—with the biggest trophy in hand—wins the day?”

Robin spit in the palm of his hand and held it out. Brenna did likewise, and Will made it unanimous. A minute later the gully was empty but for the soft layer of mist that poured over the sides to fill the hollow.

Brenna split off and ran in the direction of the river. She guessed, by the quivering oval patches of pewter gray that broke through the uppermost layer of tree branches, there was perhaps an hour or two of daylight left in the outer world. The inner world of the forest would have far less, but she was not worried. Having seen the gully, she knew where she was, knew the location of the river, knew where to intersect the hidden tract the villagers of Amboise used when they wanted to take their wares to Blois without paying a toll. She also knew of a place on the river where great fat salmon swam into the shallow pools to feed in the quiet water. Robin would doubtless be trying for a deer—which he would not find so late in the day and reeking of sweat. Will would be clever enough to search the area around the gully to see if the boar had a family it was protecting. But if she could skewer a plump, succulent salmon, she knew it would win a resounding round of praise from her father. He particularly loved the fish poached in wine, smothered in onions and thyme, washed down with a flagon of his prized pierrefitte.

Since the targets were no longer two-legged, there was no need to exercise more caution than she normally would in the greenwood. No need to play the fool either, and for that she kept her ears tuned to the sound of the wind in the upper boughs, the angry squabbling of squirrels and hare in the knee-deep ferns, the chatter of birds overhead who, like old women on a fence, stopped their gossiping long enough to mark Brenna’s passage, then resumed their bickering as if nothing had interrupted. Gil had taught her the forest was full of alarms if one took the time to become familiar with them. The crunch of a leaf, the snap of a twig, the sound of furry feet scrambling away were all indications of an unexpected presence.

She ran with an easy, loping gait, her bow slung over her arm and the long cable of her braid thumping between her shoulders on each step. Her breath was starting to take on a ghostly quality in the cooling air and the fine hairs that had sprung free around her neck and temples were curling against the thin sheen of moisture that slicked her skin.

She had no desire to work up another chilling sweat, and while she loped along, she unfastened the laces of her leather jerkin, letting the sides hang open so the air passed freely through the looser weave of her shirt. Force of habit made her glide to a halt every few hundred yards to listen to the forest. Once she thought she heard the echo of a church bell, a tiny, tinny sound far off in the distance. There was a monastery farther up the river, and the monks were meticulous if not downright fanatical about gathering their flock to prayer. It was likely the vespers bell, which would be bringing the mendicants off the fields and out of the gardens after a hard day’s work.

Another familiar sound brought her head tilting to one side. She was within bowshot of the river, two hundred yards more or less, and could not only hear the clatter of the water passing over the rocky shoreline, she could smell the deeper, damper musk in the air.

Moving slower now, stealthier through the tangle of saplings and gorse, Brenna listened for any alarms her presence might make. Deer, hare, and other small creatures would be sidling down to the embankment for their evening drinks. If she startled them off too suddenly, any fish in the pools would heed the warning and swim into the middle of the river. In her favor, it was also the time of day when colonies of blackbirds and swallows were returning to their rookeries in the forest, and they were making enough noise to cover anything short of a shout.

Another hundred yards and she could see the River Loire through the thinning trees. It moved leisurely toward the sea, a hundred fifty miles to the west, like a wide ribbon of molten silver. The tops of the trees on the opposite bank were burnished bronze by the settling sun, and high above, the purpled bellies of wind-dragged clouds wore crowns of pink and gold and amber. Dusk would not be far behind, all grays and blues and darkest blacks.

Creeping closer to the bank, she used a fallen tree to cloak her movements as she emerged from the edge of the forest and slipped down onto the wide, shingled shoreline. The bank here was flat, not very wide—there were perhaps ten feet between the ledge of jutting roots and the silky rush of water. This particular pool was tucked into an elbow of rocks, shadowed by the huge oaks and pines that crowded the shore, the trapped water so still and dark it looked like spilled ink. And whether it was because the closeness of the trees had exaggerated every squeak and snap, or because she simply felt overly exposed standing under an open sky after so many hours of moving from shadow to shadow, the sudden unearthly silence brought her to a frozen standstill.

A cool shiver rippled down her spine as she recalled a story Sparrow once told her of a pool in England, cursed for a thousand years to languish in utter silence despite being in the heart of a greenwood teeming with creatures of every size and description. He further claimed that Robin had been conceived in those magical waters, and his conception had broken the spell and brought a cacophony of sound to the forest such as had never been heard there before.

But that was England and this was France and Sparrow was always full of such tales, embellishing them shamelessly with his own exploits so that they rarely were recounted twice the same way. She certainly did not believe in faeries or magic spells (although when she was younger, she did believe that Sparrow could fly). She believed in what she saw, and in this case it was only the shadows pressed hard against the water, black on black. It was likely the rocks and few sparse trees on the narrow promontory that were buffering the sounds from the wind and the water beyond. As for curses and ill-fated lovers …

Brenna squeezed her eyes tightly shut and opened them again quickly but this was no trick of the failing light. It was not an elf and certainly not a tragic prince agonizing over a lost love. It was a half-naked satyr bent down on one knee by the waters edge, a gleaming, bejewelled dagger clutched in his right hand, raised to strike.